


Showers

by Pandamerium



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandamerium/pseuds/Pandamerium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider, and your Bro takes really long showers.</p><p>Companion fic to my friend's art here: http://monsieurmoose.tumblr.com/post/26484061522/your-brother-takes-really-long-showers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showers

Your name is Dave Strider, and your Bro takes really fucking long showers. You came to that conclusion when you were very young, about seven or eight, when you waited two hours for your older brother to get his ass out of the shower in the morning.

As you grew older, you challenged Bro for the right to have the first shower in the morning. Of course, having over ten years of experience in strife compared to you, you tended to lose every single time. When you hit your teen years, about fourteen or fifteen, hormones allowed you to break the Strider facade and pitch a verbal fit when he took even over an hour in the shower. You had learned some patience by then, sure, but it wasn’t even the time constraint that was the problem – he was using all the fucking hot water. You didn’t care that your stopwatch of a brain aggravated you by counting every second that Bro was in the shower. You cared that once you finally got in, the water might as well have been ice pellets from Canada blown over by Egbert’s Washington winds.

One morning, when Bro had beaten you to the shower yet again, you got off the couch and padded to the bathroom door. You knew he was going to kick your ass, but the satisfaction of interrupting his shower was enough to make you feel better. Plus your shower afterward would be well-deserved. Yes, it’s fucked up logic, but shut the fuck up, you like your logic.

You quietly opened the door with one smooth gesture, shoulders tense and sword on hand in your sylladex. One thing you noticed immediately was that the bathroom was dark. Bro had the lights off. The only light was streaming in from the tiny window off to the side, where the sun shone through (it was especially prominent later in the afternoon, because the bathroom faced the west side). The bathroom was also very steamy; that dick was using all the hot water again.

Even with how loud the shower was, your footsteps were drums in your ears.

You clung to the thought that Bro wasn’t paying attention – and he wasn’t, you soon realized, because there was no way to explain your being able to survive a minute of sneaking in there without your brother ninja-ing out of the shower, sword drawn, ready to give you your own ass with a side of fresh bruises topped with shredded pride.

You reached for the slightly ajar door to the shower, taking a solid stance, then you stopped, listening. There were slight movements inside the shower, a little more than the usual shuffling around. Your shoulders locked, and you reached to retrieve your weapon from your sylladex, just in case, but you stopped again.

Because Bro was fucking  _moaning_.

Your cheeks flamed at the sudden thought of your older brother, stark naked in the shower, face drawn up like a professional porn star and his hand touching his—

Whoa. No. Hold on.

Mind  _out_  of the gutter.

You hesitate, because things suddenly felt awkward to you. It wasn’t the fact that your brother was jerking it off in the shower; you did that enough yourself (when a guy’s got morning wood, he can’t just leave it). It was moreso the fact that you caught your  _brother_  doing it. At least, he had to have been doing that, because that second moan was  _way_  too genuine.

You prided yourself in knowing Bro well enough that you knew what was real and what was a wall.

“Jake…”

Your heart pounded so loudly in your ears, you thought you hadn’t heard Bro speak. But somehow the name came through, crisp and clear, and your curiosity overcame your desire to strife, and you peeked through the slight crack in the shower door. Suspicions confirmed, you felt your cheeks burn darker as you finally saw what your mind had produced.

Bro was leaning forward into the spray, one hand on the wall, the other very obviously wrapped around his dick. His normally spiky hair was flat from being soaked from the shower, strands curling and falling over his eyes. The water cascaded down over his body, his skin smooth and tan and perfect. His head was down, and he was hunched over, his hand working his shaft in quick, hurried motions.

Despite this (very criminally pornographic) image you were seeing of your brother, that wasn’t what shocked you. What really got you was that the hunch wasn’t a normal slouch. It wasn’t casual, or relaxed. It was  _broken_.

It struck you hard because never, in your life, had you ever seen Bro falter. You’d never seen him look down, defeated, or at his wit’s end. He kept his cool, he kept a level head; he always made a point of telling you that, too, because of the two of you, you were the hot-headed one. Even in the most stressful situations,

“A-ahh…”

The sound hit your torso

“Hahh…”

wormed its way inside

“Jake…!”

and imploded in your chest cavity.

Bro’s voice was cracking. His voice  _never_  cracked. Bro’s voice was always even, deadpan; not even that Southern twang dared slip through (unless it was, for all intents and purposes, ironic as hell). Right now, it was higher, desperate,  _emotional_.

Bro was

_visibly_

emotional.

This wasn’t a scene for you. This wasn’t a show you were invited to. There was a pit in your stomach as you suddenly understood, suddenly obtained a greater knowledge of your brother you hadn’t ever imagined. Without words, without asking, you felt the gravity of what was going on. It made you feel dirty, it made you feel wrong, and all thoughts of your earlier plans vanished in the steam of the shower.

You slipped out quieter than when you came in, and you curled up on the couch in the living room, legs pulled up close to your chest. There was some cheesy romantic comedy on the television, but you hardly paid attention. The scene from minutes before was engraved into your retinas, and hell, it would’ve been a huge turn-on for you were it not for the fact that Bro had looked so

so

 _defeated_.

Despite your many battles on the roof, even if you managed to one-up him on a rare orange-glazed day, he never let go of his facade, never let go of that controlled perfection and that stoic blank look that you always tried to mimic.

The idea that Bro could be somehow broken into was terrifying.

It made you feel disgusting.

It made you feel sick.

You don’t say a word when he finally comes out twenty seven minutes and forty-nine seconds later. You don’t say a word as he gets a beer and plops on the couch next to you. You don’t say a word when he makes a comment on the movie you look as if you’re watching. You definitely don’t say a word when he pointedly looks at you.

“Hey kid.”

You don’t dare look at him yet; you were too afraid he’d have that carried brokenness even now, even though you knew he was covering it up and had his perfect Strider-patented wall up, like he always did.

You feel a prod in your side, and you know you  _have_  to look at him, so you do, you turn your head in his direction, and you are so grateful to have your shades on, but you feel Bro looking into you, reading you, and you briefly wonder if your poker face is still up or if it’s fallen to pieces because you can still see the slight drop in your brother’s shoulders.

“What?” you ask, knowing your brother probably picked up the underlying shakiness in your voice.

Bro doesn’t answer you for about nineteen seconds. And you wouldn’t be lying if you said that those nineteen seconds were the longest, most unnerving seconds of your life. You almost repeated yourself; you opened your mouth, about to grind out a more impatient “what do you want”, because you just want him to say  _something_ , but you get your wish before you even realize this desire, because he cut you off before the first syllable was past your lips.

Bro had always won rap battles, too.

“Don’t grow up too fast.”

Of all the things, that was the most obligatory, random thing to have ever come out of his mouth. Your poker face definitely fell, because you knew the incredulous look was on your face, but all he did was shrug and sip his beer, and turn back to the television.

It felt awkward to not say anything, but what do you say to a brother who usually only communicates in actions and hardly even talks to you? Not only that, but this is the same brother you caught at one of his weakest moments, in the privacy of a shower, and apparently, unbeknownst to him.

You turn your face back to the T.V. and say, “No chick flick moments, Bro.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch him smirk as he takes another swig of alcohol.

It was only later that you really understood what he meant. It hit you a few weeks later when you got the balls to tell John that you’d harbored a huge crush on him for the past two and a half years. You’d considered going through your life just being his best friend and you figured that would’ve been perfectly okay. What came of your confession was establishing a greater relationship with John than you’d ever hoped for. 

That night, Bro ruffled your hair and said, “Good job, lil man.”

You understood.  

And in a way, it broke you to know that you had something Bro never did.


End file.
